


The Sins of the Father Affair

by cosmosmariner



Series: Brig Stories [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, Old Friends, Priests, a lost soul, partners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 11:19:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1742900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmosmariner/pseuds/cosmosmariner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Former UNCLE employees have turned up dead. When the next victim turns out to be an innocent man, Napoleon, Illya, and Napoleon's former partner team up to find the person responsible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 5/24/11 to my writing journal.

He watched from behind a small grove of trees. This morning was the morning; he would finally accomplish what he had been training for, waiting for.

The priest normally jogged alone along this path. He always wore the same thing: black sweatshirt bearing the legend of a seminary, grey jersey knit pants, track shoes. Usually he did not wear a hat, allowed that bright orangey-red hair to reflect the sun; but today it was very cold, and the priest must have felt a chill, for he wore a black stocking cap.

Strange; he usually didn’t have such a small gait. That other priest who sometimes ran with him had that peculiar running motion. But that other priest never wore that sweatshirt. He never jogged this way unless he was with him. It had to be him. He was alone. And it was time.

He sprinted out from behind the trees, grabbed the jogger and sliced his throat without hesitation. The priest fell to his knees, then collapsed onto his face. His blood ran red onto the dirt path.

“Finally. Finally, you are mine. I’ve done it.”

He turned the corpse over and his glee turned to horror. “No…no…NO! It can’t be!” he shrieked, pulling the stocking cap off of the dead man’s head to reveal thin black hair.

He crossed himself and begged the dead man’s forgiveness before running back into the trees. He would have to rethink everything. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Yet another reason why W. Brigham Baltz had to be killed.

\--

Napoleon Solo walked into his superior’s office. Mr. Waverly had instructed him to come as soon as possible, letting no one, not even his partner Illya Kuryakin know where he would be. The Chief Enforcement Agent thought it was strange, but knew that Waverly had his reasons.

The Old Man was steadily puffing away at his pipe when Napoleon walked in. “Ah, Mr. Solo. I have something very important to discuss with you.”

“Yes, sir. What is it, sir?”

“It has come to UNCLE’s attention that there have been a few… shall we say interesting homicides lately. And a lot of them have to do with former UNCLE employees or associates.”

“THRUSH, sir?” Napoleon asked, well aware of the nefarious dealings of that organization.

“No. In fact, we are not sure who it might be. That’s where you come in.”

“Me?”

Waverly tapped his pipe against the desk and puffed some more. “Yes, Mr. Solo. You. This is a need to know mission. The most important thing is that we stop these killings. I can give you what I know, and unfortunately that’s not much. Also you need to assemble a core group of people you can trust and get to Louisiana as soon as you can.”

Napoleon’s stomach lurched. The only thing he could think of in Louisiana that UNCLE would care about was…

“Brig?”

“Yes. Mr. Baltz…or should I say Father Baltz, is in jeopardy. Someone has made an attempt on his life. He can fill you in when you get there. I suppose you will be taking Mr. Kuryakin with you?”

Napoleon nodded. He could think of no one he wanted by his side more than Illya, especially when the life of his former partner was on the line.

“Good. I don’t think he has anything to do with this. Oh, Napoleon? Good luck.” Waverly turned around in his chair to look out of his window. Napoleon took it as his cue to leave.

That afternoon, when Illya came into their shared office after a morning in the lab, Napoleon told him the basic gist of the mission..

“So, former UNCLE employees are being systematically murdered, not by THRUSH, and your former partner is a target?” Illya asked.

“It appears so, tovarisch,” Napoleon replied.

“I suppose we’re on a mission to save him?”

Napoleon ran his hand through his hair. “I think our mission is to both keep him safe and to find out who is doing this. The police haven’t put it together because it’s been all over the world. What’s one murder in West Berlin and another murder in Los Angeles? There’s nothing to tie them together except that they all have UNCLE connections. And…”

Illya’s eyes narrowed. “And what, Napoleon?”

“They all have connections to me.”

\---

The flight to New Orleans was thankfully short, as the drive to the fishing village that Father Baltz served in was further inland and difficult to get to using roads. Illya slept the entire way, leaving Napoleon to ruminate on the few clues he had regarding the murders.

So far, there had been five people killed that he knew about. Theresa “Taffy” Barton, a young woman who used to work in UNCLE’s secretarial pool, was found beaten in Seattle, her neck broken. Daniel Blank, a former UNCLE chemist, was stabbed to death outside of a nightclub in West Berlin. Henry Baines, an agent who worked out of the UNCLE Los Angeles office. His brakes had been cut and his car plunged off of the Pacific Coast Highway. Another former agent who worked in the Mexico City headquarters named Jose Angel Dos Santos was fourth, found murdered in Piedras Negras three months ago, his throat slashed.

The fifth was Father Dennis Nalepinski, a man who served with Brig in St. Raphael Parish. Apparently, from what Napoleon could glean from the incident report, his only crime had been to borrow Brig’s sweatshirt that morning. The killer left a note that read “Father forgive me, you were not the one,“ which led Napoleon to believe that Brig was the target of the attack. Like Dos Santos, his throat had been cut.

They pulled up to the building that Brig called The Manse, home of Brig, another priest named Ken Sobel, and the late Father Nalepinski. Illya stretched out, shook his head twice and rubbed his eyes. “We’re here?” he asked.

Napoleon nodded. Illya opened the door and took the suitcases out of the trunk of the car.

Brig met them at the door. He grabbed Napoleon in a big hug and patted his back. “It’s good to see you, Solo,” the priest said warmly, then looked up and caught Illya’s eye. “You too.”

“Illya,” Napoleon murmured in Brig’s ear. “His name is Illya.”

Brig laughed. “Thanks, son. So you made it okay.”

Illya yawned and shrugged, elbowing his way past Napoleon and next to Brig. “As you can see. Can you tell me where we are staying? I’d like to put these suitcases down and check out the premises.”

“Oh! Forgive me, Illya. You are staying in Dennis’ old room, and Napoleon is staying in Sister Mary Margaret’s room. We’ve sent her to the Stella Maris parish until the coast is clear. I hope you don’t mind sleeping in a nun’s cell,” Brig added, a wicked glint in his eye as Napoleon ran his finger around his collar.

“Of course not, Brig. Just lead the way.”

The trio walked down the hall. The first room was Brig’s own, the one next to it was the one that had belonged to Father Nalepinski. Illya dropped his suitcase at the foot of the bed and inspected that area while Napoleon checked the closets and windows.

“We’re good,” Illya said.

They continued down the hallway. The room across the way from Illya’s was the other priest’s room, Father Sobel. His door was closed.

“Your room is toward the back, segregated from the men,” said Brig. “Obviously Sister Mary Margaret wanted it that way. It makes it difficult for you, I think.”

Napoleon shook his head. “No, someone needs to patrol the back. I’m glad to do it. In fact I think Illya would be a better choice to guard you and Father Sobel. He’s quite good at it.”

\--

Brig, Napoleon, and Illya sat in the parlor room. Father Sobel had sequestered himself in his room. Brig had given the two agents a glass of brandy. He, in turn, had an ice water. “It’s so hot. I’m more interested in the ice than the water.”

Napoleon sipped his brandy neatly. “So, Brig, tell me more about Father Nalepinski.”

“Dennis had been here for about a year. He was actually due to leave this church for a pastoral position in Indiana in about a month. Ken came to take his place as my associate. Dennis was showing him the ropes,” Brig frowned. He took another gulp of ice water. “Dennis and I used to jog together. I always wore the same thing. Dennis wore other things, but I always wore a sweatshirt.

“It was cold. I had twisted my back that morning and didn’t feel up for a run. Dennis was cold. He asked if he could borrow my sweatshirt. I said sure, why not? And he borrowed my shirt and laced up his shoes and ran off on the trail. And then he died.”

Illya loosened his tie. “How did you find him?”

Brig crunched on some ice. “I heard someone scream. In this community, you don’t really hear that often. You’ll hear some yelling sometimes but that comes from the south, near the bay. The fisherman yell to one another at times, but that has a cadence all its own. This was different. This was… anguish.”

Illya sipped the last of his brandy. He rose to his feet and paced, scratching his head. “And you decided to investigate?”

“I’m sure you can appreciate that although I’ve not been an agent for almost 11 years, old habits die hard.”

Napoleon shook his head. “You don’t carry a gun, Brig. What were you thinking?”

“That was my brother out there, my co-worker and a vital part of our parish. I didn’t know if Dennis was hurt, or if there was one of my parishioners out there. It’s my job to bring comfort to those who need me. And the manse is the closest building to the woods path. You’d do the same.”

Illya snorted. Napoleon glared at him. “I would. I’m not sure about my partner here.”

Brig smiled. “I think he would, if he knew that people were counting on him. Innocent people. If he didn’t, I don’t think he would be your partner for long.”

Napoleon nodded. “You’re right. You’re always right, Brig.”

Brig’s smile faded, and he continued. “I’m not always right, son. I’ve made plenty mistakes. Who knows, maybe Dennis paid for them.”

“So you agree with Mr. Waverly that this death is connected to the others?” Illya asked.

“I have to. Obviously whoever did this was after me,” Brig said, “And I am connected to the others.”

“How is that?” Napoleon looked at his cuffs, picked imaginary lint off of them.

“I worked at UNCLE when Danny was second in command down in the labs. Taffy used to type my reports; I asked specifically for her because she could read my chicken scratch without asking me questions. I worked with Baines and Angel on a case…”

“Which case?” Illya asked, his curiosity piqued.

Brig frowned. “The Klaxon Affair. Do you not remember this, Solo?”

Napoleon squeezed the bridge of his nose and rubbed his temples. “I am familiar with Dos Santos. I’m sorry to admit that I don’t remember the Klaxon Affair. Did we work this together?”

“Yes. We did. Worked with Baines, too, right before he retired. He was a lot older than us, one of the originals in the LA office. Remember him, Solo? He had a silver crew cut and always wore a seersucker suit.”

“A fashion plate he was not,” Napoleon chuckled. “I do remember him now.”

“So…this Klaxon Affair. Is there anything out of the ordinary about it?” Illya inquired as he sat back down in his chair.

Napoleon’s foot tapped anxiously against the table. “I can’t say. Give me something, Brig. Jar my memory.”

“Beautiful woman who wasn‘t sexually attracted to Mr. Solo.”

Illya’s laugh was sharp and staccato. “That has to - what was it? - jar your memory, Napoleon.”

Solo frowned. “I remember now,” he said grudgingly. “Gorgeous, leggy blonde, green eyes, Cherries in the Snow lipstick. Yvonne.”

“Yvonne. One of the few times that I had to try and play that game. I felt so dirty afterwards,” Brig said. “I’m not going to lie, it made me feel cheap, even though it didn‘t even work.”

“You were never good at that part of the job, Brig.”

“It bothered me from day one.”

“And that’s why you left UNCLE?” Illya asked.

“No. But that reason is mine alone, son,” Brig replied. He rose to his feet, stretched and yawned slightly. “I’m going to bed. Good evening, gentlemen.”

As Brig walked away, Napoleon and Illya looked at one another. “Another fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Stanley,” Napoleon said. “You could have been a tad more tactful.”

“I was being honest. I assume you don’t know why he left UNCLE, either?”

“I never asked. It was his decision.”

Illya scowled. “He was your partner, Napoleon. If I decided to leave, wouldn’t you be curious?”

Napoleon grinned. “Ah, but you, tovarisch, are a rare bird. Besides, we have been partners roughly a thousand times longer than Brig and I were. I was a green recruit fresh from Survival School when Mr. Waverly paired me with Brig. I want to say that you and I have a different relationship, but if I’m honest with myself, I was intimidated by Brig.”

Illya nodded. Napoleon continued, “He was the big man on the totem pole. Brig was everything I wanted to be - cool under pressure, part spy, part detective, part cop. He taught me the fundamentals, Illya - no, the intangibles. Survival School and my own instincts were strong, but Brig gave me tools that I didn’t realize I even needed. He was that good. He was a sure bet to be Chief Enforcement Agent and eventually, take over for the Old Man himself.”

“And yet he gave it up to become a priest.”

“Yes. It was a shock, to be certain.” Solo sighed. “I’m beat, partner. I think it’s time to catch some z’s.”

Illya agreed. He walked down the hall to his own room, weary but on alert. Tucking his Special under his pillow, he laid down and closed his eyes. The cicadas were loud, but beautiful - an even sound that lulled the Russian to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon, Illya and Brig delve deeper into the mystery of murdered UNCLE agents, and why someone would want to kill Brig.

He watched from the trees. When you were as invisible as he was, as nameless and unnoticeable, it was easy to hide. He was just a face in the crowd, another one of those poor joes out on the street. He slowly sharpened his knife on the whetstone, shaving off the burrs, making the edge as sharp and gleaming as it could be. Just waiting…

Those two men came today. They had to be affiliated with UNCLE, the same organization that Father Baltz had once been in. The taller, dark haired man seemed to have a relationship with the priest. The little man, with blond hair, seemed to be a little more apprehensive. He would have to watch that one, for he would be the unknown factor.

He spat on the whetstone to keep it wet, stroking the knife’s edge along it. Yes, the unknown factor. Difficult to plan for all contingencies when there was such a thing. He raised the knife up and watched the faint light from the manse reflect off of the blade. _Soon…soon… this blade would be covered with blood…_

\--

The next morning, Illya woke to the sound of a rooster crowing. He rubbed his eyes and climbed out of the uncomfortable bed he slept in. Apparently, Father Nalepinski did not believe in comforts of any kind. Illya thought he might have made a good Communist if he didn’t believe in fairy tales.

He slipped on a fresh shirt, zipped up his trousers and laced up the shoes, then began his rounds. The manse was a small building; it was, however, awkwardly laid out. Not to his surprise, he found Napoleon also walking the perimeter of the building.

“Did you sleep well?”

Napoleon grabbed his lower back and arched in reverse. “Sister Mary Margaret has a thin mattress. You can feel every last coil.”

“So, no.”

“No, Illya.”

They walked in tandem around the back of the house, glancing up at the roof, the trees, the belfry of the church a few hundred yards away. “I guess you didn’t get a lot of sleep, and not because of Sister Mary Margaret’s bed. I, too, stayed up for hours wondering why these people have been murdered.”

“Other than the relationship with the Klaxon affair? I really don’t know. Baines was barely involved; he ran one surveillance mission on the west coast. Taffy only typed reports, for God’s sake. She never worked in the field. I bet she never actually paid attention to what was in the reports. So, why her? Why Baines? And why now?”

Illya shrugged and leaned closer to Napoleon, speaking low. “I don’t know. But what we do need to know is this: we need to reacquaint ourselves with this affair. Everything, no matter how small, might be important. We’ll need to pick Father Baltz’s brain, and we’ll need to start now.”

Father Sobel had left the manse for the church, taking Brig’s place in the church office. Brig himself sat at the chipped Formica table in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee and eating a piece of chocolate cake for breakfast.

Illya walked into the kitchen first. He rummaged through the icebox, grabbing a leftover pork chop and a piece of bread. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat across the table from Brig. “Napoleon and I have been thinking.”

Brig looked down at his mug, a lopsided grin on his face. “A dangerous pastime on Solo’s part.”

“I heard that, Father,” Napoleon said as he sat next to his partner. “We are tying to think about why these murders are happening now. The Klaxon Affair was well over twelve years ago. Why now?”

Brig pushed his plate away, leaving half of the cake. “I thought about that myself, son. I started making a list of people who worked with us on the case. Basically the only people associated with UNCLE who are left alive are you, me, George, and Mr. Waverly himself. Everyone else has been eliminated.”

Illya chewed on the chop bone. “Were there innocents on this mission?”

“Yvonne. Actually, she wasn’t that innocent. She was the girlfriend of the fellow who was assisting THRUSH, but she wasn‘t involved.“

“And what of THRUSH?” Illya inquired.

Napoleon tapped his fork against his coffee cup, then gasped. “Brig…I had almost forgotten her. Miss Blythe.”

“Who?” asked Illya.

Napoleon reached across the table and took a forkful of the chocolate cake. “She was THRUSH. Before Angelique, there was Rose Blythe. She was another woman who wasn’t interested in me,” he said. “But unlike Yvonne, Miss Blythe was attracted to gingers.”

“And like you and Angelique, Brig had a taste for danger?” Illya said.

Napoleon laughed. “Yes, but unlike that femme fatale I tangled with, Brig and Miss Blythe had more than just the occasional liaison. It seemed they were very much attracted to one another.”

“As attracted to a dangerous, slightly unhinged, evil, beautiful woman that one could be. In the seven years I worked for UNCLE, I met Miss Blythe five times. The Klaxon Affair was the last.” Brig’s cheeks pinked slightly. “I wasn’t a priest then,” he said simply.

Illya looked puzzled. “May I ask why the Klaxon Affair was the last? Was it because you retired soon afterward?”

Brig’s eyes grew dark. “Rose was killed, a victim of a poorly timed and awkwardly placed bomb. Not our doing, of course. THRUSH had crawled all over that garrison, and they put these pipe bombs in the stupidest places. One of her henchmen miscalculated and blew himself and Miss Blythe to kingdom come.”

The room was quiet for a moment. Illya cleared his throat and nodded toward Napoleon. They both left the kitchen and headed toward the living area.

“Napoleon, why do I suddenly have the feeling that Miss Blythe has something to do with this?”

“She can’t have, partner. She died. I saw her die with my own eyes. I was a block away from Brig when it happened.”

“Did she have any family? A lover?”

Napoleon lowered his voice to almost a whispter. “Other than THRUSH? And occasionally Brig? I don’t know. Blythe was cunning and clever, but she wasn’t much of a threat towards us if Brig was around. I don’t know if she loved him, but I do know that, like most THRUSH, she valued work over love.”

“Isn’t that what we do?”

Napoleon frowned. “No. If I ever really found the type of love that makes me want to fundamentally change what I do, I might scale back. I would choose.”

“And Miss Blythe didn’t?”

“I don't think she didn’t have the chance to.”

\---

All this planning, all this work, and still he was one step away from his ultimate goal: killing Brig Baltz. He had only one name to go off of other than Brig’s; an UNCLE agent named Baines. He met with Baines at a café, under the guise of doing a little research. It was so easy, getting a name from him. Just one name, that’s all he needed. Eventually he would get to his destination. Easier still to sneak out of the bathroom and rig the fool’s brakes to fail fifteen minutes after he began driving. And in that area? Baines would either fall off a cliff or crash into an oncoming car.

The next person he met up with, a woman named Taffy, was almost too pretty to kill. He felt a little bit of regret with every blow of his fist. She had begged for her life, and he had almost relented. But he knew that she would tell someone, and derail his plans. He needed this, and as much as her cries for help hurt him inside, he had to keep her quiet. For her sake, though, he did break her neck, quick and clean.

The name she gave was promising. It lead to the chemist, who knew the name of the agents that Baltz worked with the most. Baines was dead, and so his next visit was to a Mexican border town and a man named Dos Santos, who gave him the information he needed most: where to find Brig Baltz.

When he realized that this man he had vowed to kill so long ago was a priest, it shook him. He had to admit it. But justice would be served, regardless of the current situation.

That red-headed bastard would die. And Rose Blythe would be avenged.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The continuing mystery of vicious death, and why Brig left UNCLE.

Father Sobel made a giant crawfish and shrimp boil for the parish guests, along with a lemon icebox pie. He took great pleasure in teaching Illya the finer aspects of eating the tiny crustaceans.

“You got to break it in half, right here. See?” Father Sobel said as he bent the crawfish, breaking the shell. “Pull that tail out. See this? Pinch that tail. The meat squeezes out. Now, take the other side and slurp. Real loud, now, get a lot of air in it.”

Illya licked his lips and smiled. “This is delicious,” he mumbled, his mouth full of crawfish meat.

At the other side of the picnic table, Brig and Napoleon peeled shrimp and ate boiled potatoes in their skin. “Illya brought up a good point this morning, Brig. I think we’ve been going about this all wrong, trying to see what this has to do with the people who have been murdered, what that has to do with UNCLE. What if this has something to do with THRUSH?”

Brig bit down on a corn cob. “And by THRUSH, you mean the one member of THRUSH that would have had an impact?”

Napoleon nodded. “Yes. Miss Blythe. Brig, you need to be honest with me. Did you leave UNCLE because of her death?”

“No. Honestly, Napoleon, no. I can’t deny that it didn’t play a small role, but it was the smallest of roles.”

“Why, then?”

“I can’t expect you to understand. I certainly don’t expect Illya to understand, it’s so far beyond his realm of experience. But I was blessed, Napoleon. I was honored.”

Napoleon’s eyes narrowed and he put his own corn down onto his plate. “Blessed? Honored? By who?”

“The Holy Mother. She spoke to me, years before. I knew that I had to change my life, devote myself to her service and the service of her Son.”

“You saw the Virgin Mary,” Napoleon said in disbelief.

“I knew you wouldn’t understand, son. I don’t expect you to.”

“If you say you saw her, I believe you.”

Brig peeled a shrimp and popped it into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully and washed it down with a glass of iced tea. “Don’t lie. I don’t know how you’re able to do your job effectively, you’re such a terrible liar,” Brig teased. “You don’t believe me, and I don’t blame you. If you told me that you saw the Holy Mother I probably wouldn’t believe you, either.”

Illya walked to their side of the table and grabbed the remainder of the lemon pie. “Father Sobel is an outstanding cook! He’s going to teach me how to make these crawfish and shrimp so I can maybe recreate this when we return to New York.”

“Yes, I’m quite lucky he was sent to our parish,” Brig responded. “Oh, Illya, can I ask you a question?”

“Certainly, Father.”

“If I told you that I saw the Holy Mother, what would you say?”

Illya frowned, tapped his index finger on his chin. “Hmm. I would probably say that you are suffering from delusions, and that you should be checked out by a neurologist.”

Brig laughed. “Exactly what I thought you’d say.”

Illya shook his head and returned to his side of the table to share the lemon pie with Father Sobel. Brig continued speaking to Napoleon. “We had just checked out that apartment in Belgrade, remember? LoBianco had given the all clear and we were on our way to the rendezvous point with Yvonne?”

“You told me to go ahead, meet Yvonne in the park, and you would meet up with us at the safe house.”

“Yes,” Brig replied. “I saw there was a church nearby. I stopped to pray for guidance and protection, as I normally did. I bent down, crossed myself, looked up and I saw her. At least it seemed as though I saw her. I know I heard her voice in my mind. She told me that she was showing me a better way, a different path than the one I was on. All I had to do was trust. Then she disappeared.”

“Brig, it was a stressful time. We were taking comfort wherever we could. It would be easy to think that you saw the Blessed Virgin Mary, but you saw what you wanted to see.”

Brig put his hand on Napoleon’s shoulder. “She told me what I needed to hear. She answered my prayer, Napoleon. I had been praying, for a long time, about the direction of my life. I wasn’t sure that UNCLE was the place for me. I felt an uneasiness that I can’t explain. When I gave Mr. Waverly my gun and badge, I felt a freedom that I had never felt before in my life. UNCLE means more to you than it ever did to me. I won’t say that I don’t agree with it, or that it didn’t play an important role in my life, but my place is here, in this church, with these people. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to retire to my quarters and pray. How appropriate that today is Friday, because I need to reflect upon the Sorrowful Mysteries now more than ever. I trust that you and Illya will be fine on your own?”

Napoleon patted the priest on his arm. “Yes. Go, Father. Do what you were called to do.”

\---

He sat near the window. The two agents were asleep, or at least not on patrol at this hour of the night. The entire village was sleeping, except for Father Baltz. The light of a solitary candle flickered and sputtered into the night, illuminating the small window to his room. He could hear the priest praying in his room.

_St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in our day of battle, be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil._

There was nothing to defend against. He was there to do one job, and do it to the best of his ability. In fact, he envied Father Baltz’s certainty that a god would listen to his prayer. If only…

_…thrust into hell Satan and all evil spirits who wander through this world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen._

He wondered how long he could continue to keep watch over the manse, how long these UNCLE agents would stay. He would wait, though. He had waited for over twelve years. He could wait as long as he needed to.

\---

Illya woke up feeling leaden. He had eaten too many crawfish the night before. His nightcap was bicarbonate of soda to assist with the heartburn he knew he would have. He was up most of the night, listening to Father Baltz praying and Father Sobel snoring. He also heard rustling in the flower bed outside his window.

Illya pulled the chair to the window and stood on his tiptoes to reach the sill. He saw a small figure crouching down. The person was listening intently. Illya wondered if it was the mystery assassin, but this young man did not have any sort of weapon on his person that he could see. The figure disappeared into the night toward the village. Illya went back to bed, making careful note of what the figure wore and the few details he could remember about the person’s appearance.

That morning, when Napoleon sat near him at the kitchen table, Illya explained what happened. “I plan on going to question Sister Mary Margaret after breakfast. Surely she noticed something. Maybe she’s seen this young man around.”

Napoleon agreed. “I will shadow Brig today while you go to that church. Do you have a clue where it’s located?”

“I thought I would ask Father Sobel. From what I can gather, the Stella Maris church is located twenty miles away, three towns over, closer to the ocean itself and not the inlet.”

“Good luck, tovarisch.”

“The same to you, Napoleon.”

Illya borrowed the pastor’s car and drove twenty miles away to the village of Belle Breaux. There he found the Holy Church of Stella Maris. He entered the church and asked for Sister Mary Margaret. A short, stocky, older lady in a white dress and habit walked up to him.

“Hello. You asked for me?”

“Yes, my name is Illya Kuryakin. I am working with Father Baltz regarding the death of Father Nalepinski. I was hoping you could assist me, answer some questions I have. Are you willing to talk to me?”

The nun narrowed her eyes. “Are you some kind of Commie or something?”

“Madam, I am Russian, but this has nothing to do with my ability to investigate murder of a law abiding United States citizen,” Illya said.

Sister Mary Margaret smiled. “I’ve heard Father Brig talk about you, kiddo. I think you’ll do. Tell me, what are your questions?”

“I have noticed that in the village, there aren’t a lot of visitors. In the last three months, have you noticed any new parishioners? Even children?”

The sister sat down on the pew next to Illya. “I don’t think I remember anyone new lately… wait. I think I saw a young man about a month ago. He spoke to Father Dennis for a while, and me, too. Good looking kid, had reddish hair.”

“Red hair?” Illya asked, his eyes wide.

“Reddish hair, very skinny. Skittish, like a colt. He asked me a lot of questions about Father Brig.”

“Such as?”

“How long he’s been our pastor, if he has any family, if I knew anything about his life before he came to St. Raphael’s.”

Illya frowned. “What did you tell him?”

The nun shook her head. “Nothing. It’s none of his business, he’s not one of our people. Besides, I don’t know what Father Brig did before seminary. Has it something to do with you and your partner?”

“Yes. I’ll leave it up to Brig to discuss his life before his ministry. But I have one last question for you. If I were to show you a picture of this young man, could you identify him?”

The sister nodded. “Absolutely, kiddo. You got one?”

“No. Not yet. But I will have a drawing for you tomorrow. Will you meet with me again?”

“Sure thing. I like you. Father Brig was right; you are an unusually charming fellow.” The nun’s eyes twinkled with mirth. “Like a rattlesnake.”

Illya left Stella Maris with the nun’s laughter ringing in his ears. She remembered a red headed young man asking about Brig. Various scenarios ran through his mind, but still one question remained: what did this person have to do with Brig, and did he murder the UNCLE employees and Father Nalepinski?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A break in the case...and a shocking discovery leads Napoleon, Illya and Brig toward the devastating truth.

Napoleon and Brig jogged down the wooded path outside the manse, the same path where Dennis Nalepinski found his end. Napoleon kept pace with the priest easily. They stopped a mile away from the manse to take a drink of water from the canteen that Brig carried.

“Brig, I was thinking. Suppose Illya is right, and this does have something to do with Miss Blythe. Who would have reason to do this?”

The priest scratched his head and took another drink of water before handing the canteen to Napoleon. “I’m not sure. Rose never mentioned family to me.”

“You actually spoke about such things?”

Brig nodded. “Regardless of what you might believe, Solo, Rose was a human being, a flesh and blood woman with feelings, hopes and dreams. Obviously those hopes and dreams were different than mine, but she was human all the same. We did talk about our lives.”

“Waverly would have had a fit.”

“By the time that Rose and I began having these conversations, Waverly was no longer the guiding force in my life.”

“He never would have let you get away with it.”

“He would not have been able to stop me,” Brig replied.

Napoleon could not believe the candid way that Brig was discussing disobeying the Old Man’s orders. It was usually not acceptable for UNCLE and THRUSH to indulge in pillow talk of a highly personal nature. Brig was admitting that he and a THRUSH agent spoke about extremely dangerous, personal details. Napoleon could not believe it. Even during his interlude with Angelique, and other dangerous women, he would never have discussed Aunt Amy, his estranged sister, his deep friendship with his partner. Those subjects were off limits to everyone, especially THRUSH. However, it appeared that Brig’s ways were different than his own in that regard.

“Why did you talk to her about these things?” Napoleon asked.

“Because… I thought I loved her. I didn’t, not really, but I did care about Rose deeply. She was an important part of my life for many years. Maybe I did love her, in a way. Maybe that’s what killed her.”

“What do you mean?”

Brig grabbed the water bottle from Napoleon’s hand and took a violent swig from it, choking on the liquid. His voice was raspy. “She moved to try and save me,” Brig said. “She moved five feet to the left, because she knew that one of her men was going to shoot the first UNCLE agent they saw, and I happened to be the first in line.”

“You mean…”

“She deliberately stood in the line of fire. And then when her idiot assistant saw me and fired the gun, the other assistant took that as a cue to set off the bomb. She died trying to save me.”

Napoleon thought back to the conversation he had with Illya only a few evenings before. He was wrong about Rose Blythe, he thought. Did she truly have something to do with these mysterious deaths? He hoped Illya came back soon - it was always better to bounce ideas off of his partner.

\---

That evening, Illya and Napoleon sat in the nun’s cell, discussing the various theories they had formulated. Illya attempted to draw the man he saw outside of Brig’s window, but he found he couldn’t quite get it right.

Napoleon raised his communicator to his lips. “Open Channel D. Solo here.”

A fuzzy female voice answered. “Hi there, Napoleon. How’s it going wherever you are?”

“Ah, Laura, always pleasant to hear your voice. Listen, I need you to patch me through to Berea. Can you do that?”

“I certainly can, Mr. Solo. Take care…”

A scant few moments went by when Napoleon and Illya heard the scratchy voice of Carlos Berea, a forensic artist who worked with UNCLE.

“Berea here. Napoleon, is that you?”

“Hi, Carlos. Illya’s going to give you some specifics. See if you can’t draw something and send it to us via telegraph at the local police station?”

“Sure thing, boss. Hey, Illya. Give me the scoop, eh?”

Twenty-seven minutes later, Illya closed the communicator and leaned against the wall. “I certainly hope this works. I didn’t get that good a look at him, Napoleon. What do you think Berea can do?”

“We’ll see, partner mine. Tomorrow morning, we should have something at the police station. I think I’m going to hit the hay. What about you?”

Illya stood to his feet, stretched and yawned. “I think that’s a good idea. Good night, Napoleon.”

“Pleasant dreams, tovarisch.”

\---

The wind howled and the rain began to pour. The small lean-to near the church was too flimsy to keep the elements off of him. He sat by the light of a Coleman lantern, sharpening his knife.

Far too long he had waited, nineteen horrible years. He would get his revenge. Finally, his mother would be avenged. He would be avenged. And the world would know the truth, the truth that would not be denied - could not be denied.

Tomorrow. He would find a way. He couldn’t wait any longer. If those two UNCLE agents had to be eliminated in the process, so be it.

\---

The police station was small and cramped. The deputy on duty was distrustful of Illya and it wasn’t until Napoleon took control of the situation that they received the telegraph showing the sketch that Berea had made using Illya’s description.

“Well, Illya?”

The Russian agent put on his glasses and peered at the picture. “It is a very good likeness, Napoleon. I could say with certainty that this is the man I saw outside Brig’s window the other night. I think we should show this to Sister Mary Margaret as well.”

The senior agent agreed, and the two men drove to Stella Maris to meet with the nun. When they showed her the picture, she gasped, and confirmed that it was the same young man she had seen asking strange questions about Brig. It was all the information that the UNCLE agents needed, and together they returned to St. Raphael’s to show the picture to Father Sobel and Brig.

Father Sobel did not recognize the man. Illya handed the paper to Brig, who promptly sat down on the edge of the sofa. His hands trembled, and he paled slightly.

“Brig? Are you okay?” Napoleon asked.

“This…this is the man, you think?”

“This is who I saw,” Illya replied. “Why?”

Brig swallowed hard, his hand squeezing the bottom of the picture. “He looks like Rose.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truths are revealed, and it's a dark night in the soul for our heroes. The conclusion!

“…And that’s why I need you to research Rose Blythe’s medical records. We have to see if there are any children that she may have had.”

“OK, Napoleon, but it seems like we’re looking for a needle in a haystack,” April Dancer said. “I’ll have Mark assist me and we’ll call you or Illya as soon as we find something.”

Napoleon closed his communicator and sat back in his chair. Brig sat, morose, in the same spot where he had sat before. Illya was on patrol, since he was the one who saw the mysterious young man and could recognize him.

“Brig, I know this is hard for you, but are you certain?”

The priest held his head in his hands. “I think I know what she looked like, Napoleon. But why would he be after me? Unless he believes I had some hand in her death.”

“You believe this is her son?”

“He has to be. But why would she continue on the path she was on if she had a child? Why didn’t she confide in me? She told me almost everything else. It just doesn’t make since.”

Napoleon sat opposite Brig on the sofa in the living area. “Why, indeed. But think about it, Brig. Why should she tell you, an UNCLE agent and someone who was supposed to be her sworn enemy, that she had a child? Wouldn’t a kid be the weakest link?”

“Possibly. That doesn’t excuse the fact that I don’t…” the priest stopped talking, and his eyes grew large. “That’s it. The year and a half that she disappeared. That had to be when she had the baby.”

“Excuse me?”

Brig snapped his fingers. “Of course! Napoleon, I saw her once the first year I was with UNCLE. I saw her again ten months later. Then I didn’t see her again for almost two years. After that, I saw her at least once a year, every year, until the Klaxon Affair.”

“And you think she was with child and in hiding?”

“No. Think of it as maternity leave.”

Napoleon smiled. “Son of a bitch. Oh, sorry, Brig,” he said, apologizing. “It makes as much sense as anything else.”

Illya returned to the house, pausing long enough to down a glass of water, then sat in a chair. He looked up at Napoleon and frowned. “Nothing so far. It’s almost as if we’re the only creatures around. I didn’t even see a feral cat.”

Brig shook his head. “It’s me he wants. I’ll need to draw him out somehow.”

“No, absolutely not! I’m not using you as bait,” Napoleon replied.

“I have to agree with Brig on this one,” Illya said.

Napoleon’s eyes narrowed as he glared at his partner. “Whose side are you on, anyway?” he asked, his voice low and dangerously silky.

“I’m on the side of right,” Illya said coldly. “This time, Brig is right. He’ll have to lure the killer. It may be our only way. Besides, we still don’t know what his motives are, if or when he’ll strike again. And we must stop him somehow.”

Brig stood up, drawing himself to his full, impressive height. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “Napoleon, Illya, I am going to go to my room and pray for an hour. When I come out, we will all go into the woods. I will stand alone. If you want, you can wait in the shadows. But I will meet face to face with this young man, and there is nothing you can do to stop me.”

Illya cracked his knuckles. “Brig, I will assist you.”

Napoleon shook his head. “You’re mad. You’re all mad. I cannot be a part of this.”

\---

He climbed the tree and stilled his breathing. The blond agent was searching. He knew he was looking for him. He wondered if he should just leap from the tree and take him by surprise, but he had a feeling that this man would be a formidable enemy. He just had to keep watch. Brig Baltz would be alone sometime soon, and he could wait. He had all the time in the world.

\---

Brig changed his clothes. He wore his suit and collar, made himself look as much as a priest as possible. He wanted this unknown entity to know that regardless of who he was before, he was a man of the cloth now.

Napoleon and Illya had a heated argument. He heard them through the door. Finally, Napoleon acquiesced and the room fell silent. Brig heard the shrill beep of the communicator, and Illya’s rushed murmur. After a few more minutes of prayer, Brig took a deep breath and walked into the hallway.

“I assume that we’ve gotten word from Miss Dancer?”

“Mr. Slate, actually,” Illya replied. “Our sources state that Rose Blythe did indeed have a child, a young man around the time we determined. Mark says that from what he and April could gather, his name is Wallace.”

“She always called me Wally. My name is actually Walter, but I hated it. That’s why I go by Brig. But Rose never called me Brig. She called me Wally.”

“Do you think…” Napoleon began. Brig shook his head no.

“How do you know?” Illya asked.

“I cannot have children. I never could. When I was a boy, I was kicked by a horse. Emergency surgery, and they accidentally gave me a vasectomy. There is no way I could be young Wallace’s father.”

Napoleon and Illya looked at each other and nodded. Brig took a deep breath and opened the door to the manse. The sun was high above the copse, making it look both beautiful and mysterious. Brig began to walk into the forest, Illya and Napoleon flanking him from behind.

Brig stood in the middle of the wood, a shaft of sunlight piercing the thick green canopy and shining on his hair. He held his hands out to his sides, and stood firmly in place.

“Hello, my son. I know you are Rose’s child. I know you’re looking for me. Can we talk?”

The woods were silent. Illya and Napoleon moved apart and took positions deeper in the forest.

Brig continued to speak. “Rose and I were friends. Did you know that? I would have never hurt her.”

“You lie!” The young, quivering voice echoed through the glen. “You murdered her!”

“No, Father Baltz tells the truth,” Napoleon called out. “I was there. I saw it with my own eyes. He did not hurt Rose Blythe.”

“He hurt her in other ways!” the young man shrieked. “He hurt me!”

Brig raised his hands above his head in a show of surrender. “How did I hurt you, son? I don’t know you.”

The leaves shook violently, and Brig and the two agents heard the scrap of tree bark, then the quiet thud of boots on hard, packed ground. A tall, redheaded young man moved into the clearing. The sunshine cast a shadow on the man. He vibrated with anger. “Son,” he spat out. “You call me son. If you only knew the truth.”

“If I only knew what?”

The young man pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “You have an idea, _Father._ Don’t you? I’m sure you do. Look at me. Look at me!” he screamed. “Don’t I look familiar to you?”

“You look like Rose.”

“I look like my mother, yes.”

Illya circled around the trees and kept his distance. Napoleon positioned himself behind Brig and held his gun steady. 

Brig stood perfectly still. “You are Wallace, correct?”

The young man smiled coldly. “No one calls me Wallace. My name is Wally.”

Wally’s mouth curled into a harsh frown, and he stepped backwards, away from the priest. He dropped something, then fell to his knees and scrambled in the dirt to look for it. Brig stepped closer. Napoleon leapt out and yelled for him to stay away.

“Who is this?” Wally screamed. “Is the other here, too? The blond?”

Napoleon did not acknowledge him. Wally ran into the woods.

“Wally! Come back!” Brig called, while Napoleon looked around the trees for him.

“I’m at a disadvantage here, Brig. I’m not familiar with this area, and Wally certainly is,” Napoleon said.

Suddenly, the two men heard a cry from the forest, the sharp rustling of leaves and a scuffle. From the edge of the wood walked Wally, holding Illya close to him, his knife pressed close to the Russian’s throat.

“I will cut him. I have done it before and I will do it again. All I want,” Wally said, his voice quaking, “all I want is Brig. I will release this man, unharmed, if you give me the priest.”

“I cannot allow you to hurt Illya. He was trying to protect me, do his job.” Brig tried to reason with the boy.

“My mother was trying to do her job. And you killed her.”

Napoleon kept his gun pointed at the young man holding his partner. “Wally, you’re wrong. We didn’t kill your mother. In fact, Brig tried to save her. You can blame her coworkers for her demise.”

Wally’s body shook with rage. He held the knife closer to Illya’s throat, the edge scraping the Russian’s skin. The knife slipped slightly in his sweaty hand. His other hand was on Illya‘s gun, located on the agent‘s hip. “No. No, that’s not right. They told me…”

“Who? Who told you, Wally?” Napoleon asked. “Did someone tell you that Father Baltz was the culprit?”

Wally stifled a cry, swallowed his tears and sniffled. “All my life… they gave me the name. They gave me the name. I read her journal,“ he muttered. “You’re lying! You’re all lying to me.”

Napoleon continued to keep his gun trained onto Wally. He looked at his partner and nodded. Illya stood completely still. Brig reached out and started to walk toward the increasingly disturbed young man and his hostage.

“Wally… I cared very deeply for your mother. Truly, I did. But I want you to know that I had nothing to do with her death. It was an accident. A horrible accident. If I had known that she had a child…”

“No!” Wally screamed. “You had to know! You had to! You’re my father!”

Brig shook his head sadly. “That’s not possible, Wally.”

“It is. They told me. I read it! My mother said that she named me after the great love of her life. And your name is Wally, isn’t it? I’m not stupid,” he said, his voice quivering. “I have red hair. You have red hair.”

“Who told you, Wally?” Napoleon’s voice was low and soft.

“The people who raised me. The people at the orphanage. They said it was my duty to know, if I wanted to. That my mother had been seduced by an UNCLE agent and left to her own devices, and that the same UNCLE agent who fathered me killed my mom.”

Brig was a stone’s throw away from the young man. He could see the fear in Wally’s eyes, and the uncertainty in Illya’s. “Look at me, Wally. I swear to you, I did not hurt your mother. And I am not your father.”

“How do you know? How can you be so sure?”

Brig’s eyes never moved from Wally’s. “Son, may God strike me down if I am lying to you now. I am not your father.”

Tears flowed down Wally’s cheeks. “So everything has been a lie. I did all of this for nothing.“ He grabbed Illya’s gun, letting go of the agent, and ran into the woods. Brig started after him, but Illya stopped him. Napoleon also made his way toward the glen when the three men heard a gun shot.

“I must go to him,” Brig said.

“It could be a trap,” Illya countered, gingerly touching his throat.

“It doesn’t matter. He needs someone.”

Napoleon held Illya back. “Let him go. You okay, tovarisch?”

“I’ve been better,” Illya said, looking at the small droplets of blood on his fingers. “He got the jump on me.”

They watched as Brig walked into the woods, then heard his soft yet strong voice praying over the young man who had attempted to murder him.

_…and thus do I commend thee into the arms of our Lord of earth, our Lord Jesus Christ, preserver of all mercy and reality…_

“Last rites. Surprising, since it’s obvious he’s done this to himself,” Napoleon said.

“I could never do that,” Illya said. “I could never give comfort to a man who tried to kill me.”

“I think that’s why Brig is a priest, and we are UNCLE agents,” Napoleon replied. “Come now, let’s watch from the shadows.”

\---

“It’s sad, really, that this young man was brainwashed by THRUSH to be an assassin.” Napoleon sipped his coffee and leaned back in his chair.

Illya finished the rest of the lemon icebox pie and drank his own cup of coffee. “April said that there wasn’t a father listed on the birth certificate. Maybe she wanted her son to think that Brig was his father.”

“Maybe she did. Or maybe THRUSH erased the name of the true parent, I wouldn’t put it past them,” Napoleon replied.

The two agents heard the creak of the front door. They looked up to see Brig enter the room. His skin was pale, making the purplish-black circles under his eyes look like neon bruises. His shoulders were slumped and he sagged into a chair.

“He died,” Brig said simply.

Illya rose to his feet and left the room, leaving Napoleon alone with his old partner. The dark haired agent sat beside the priest and laid his hand on top of his friend’s. “I’m not sure what to say, except that we can’t save them all.”

“Napoleon, I know he tried to kill me. He tried to kill Illya. He killed Father Dennis and countless others, but he was a victim in this as much as anyone else. He was a child, and he never had the chance to be a child.”

“He wasn’t innocent, Brig. He had a choice. He chose to kill all of those people. He chose to run into the woods with Illya’s Special and shoot himself.”

“But his soul…it’s sad to see that kind of loss, Solo. I don’t expect you to understand.”

They sat alone in the quiet room for what felt like an eternity, then Napoleon whispered, “A wise man once told me that I cannot receive atonement for a sin that I did not commit.”

Brig sighed. “Tricky, tricky…using my words against me.”

“Well, when it’s true, it’s true.”

“Napoleon…”

Napoleon looked up and into his friend’s eyes. He saw a spark of warmth, and the ghost of a smile.

“Thank you.”


End file.
